Maybe I have nothing to say,
but do me a favor
to continue reading.
Look, your sorrows - I know - are the same as mine,
I also have in one of
the shelves the still intact box of the
wake house Did you know that the cremated body
It is not reduced to ashes but to boulders,
the most similar to the pebbles that the
cats to do their messes?
But it's not my mother who I want
talk, maybe it's about literature,
or the solar eclipse, or the dad who
spends his bills at the hospital
rosary, when I cross you on the street,
you always have a different face, so
as if you were wearing a carnival mask
for each day of the week,
when I was a boy I shared a piece of
my moon and if oblivion does not deceive me
you smiled supporting your roots in
my chest, maybe I wanted to leave this to you,
a trumpet of words, the best scene of
your favorite movie, I have more than
forty-six days of the child, and not yet
I resign myself to being called for myself
name, standing before the autumn sea
all the ships seem alien, and you
that you have the same melancholy as
the birds understand that this is not
It has nothing to do with sadness. Me to
hand in my gardener's pocket
and without surprise I find the lunar piece that
you gave me when we were children,
When to take apart a skateboard wheel
to play with the bearings
It was everything we wanted out of life.